First Lady
a portrait in cloth and endurance
A white stripe wraps a r o u n d the flat sphere
long brim, eyeless
It’s the rising moon
peeking
on one midnight blue evening
Dove, we cannot reach
touch.
No.
***
Laughter floats, mist
twinkling trinkets
reflecting warm light shards of chandelier crystals
on polished fingers tips
holding flutes to lips-
prints organic mist lines
stems
as looking glass
warped
the snow w h i t e fabric
a slash of thick black ink s p l a t t e r e d
calligraphy
on
cloth
***
One sweeping movement.
***
It wills the crowd to taunt as it held
straight up, rigid high
high
zig zags across my breasts
a lover's hand on one hip
b o n e
pulls to the floor
angular open
baring smooth skin with each k n o c k i n g step
stilettos sharpen feet arches
alert
bearing
pain.
***
She speaks the wildflower.
Steely against the harsh seasons
growing beautiful
spindly roots
pressed by the snow
closes the seam.
***
Draw it
t i g h t e r
About the Creator
Michele Nampalli
This space is breath for my sensitivity. The poems come fully formed. I've known for quite some time now that my art is about receiving more than creation...its the most natural way I know to process my inner world. It started when I was 7.
Keep reading
More stories from Michele Nampalli and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Solitude of The Chupacabra
Many say that the Chupacabra is a rather recent and modern tale, a mangy coyote or rabied dog. Some point out that it’s just twisted evolution. But very few know the true backstory of the shapeshifter that led to the bloodsucking legend. And perhaps once you will come to know and understand more, you might “forget” a few cattle out to wander.
By Oneg In The Arctic3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.